Water Music
by lookskindagreyout
Summary: An odd case involving a forgotten viral creation, ritualistic mutilation, and raspberry parfait. slight PeterxOlivia.
1. Chapter 1

Hello, I'm Faust. But enough about me, I think. This is the first Fringefic I'm putting 'on the market', and I hope that you may find it entertaining, and don't judge my ability too critically, because, let's face it, I _have_ no ability.*generic grin* Cheers. Now give me candy.

* I, in no way, own Fringe, or any of the characters affiliated with its glory.

Chapter One.

Shivering awoke him, but not his own. Peter blinked drowsily, his senses finding the blank, empty stucco ceiling of the hotel room, and it took him only a few more moments to realize where he was- Boston. Still in Boston. He sighed.

Peter pushed the blankets to his waist and sat up, rubbing his face as the shivering at his side continued, and he coughed softly, looking over at the illuminated blue digits of the alarm clock: 3:07. He grumbled softly, turning to peer at the other side of the bed, "Walter."

A form curled tightly in the blankets gave no response, continuing to shiver violently. Concern gripped Peter, and he leaned toward his father, reaching out to touch his trembling shoulder, "Walter?"

Walter's voice was hoarse and muffled as he replied, "Leave me, I'm dying."

Peter frowned, pulling the blankets away. Walter lay curled on the sheets, his arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to stop the coughs that shook him, his face pale and damp with misery. He covered his head with his arms, sniffing. Peter reached over to place a palm on his forehead, "You're not dying, you've just got a fever. I think you may have picked something up at the station yesterday…"

"It's really cold in here," Walter murmured, pushing sweat from his eyebrows with his fingertips.

"Yeah, come on, get up. We'll get you some cough syrup and an aspirin." He patted his fathers' shoulder, and kicked the covers away, getting to his feet. Peter scratched his stomach as he headed toward the small kitchen station, filling the coffee pot in the sink and starting the machine with the press of a button. Then, he flipped on the lights, and headed for the bathroom.

Walter was grumbling inaudibly as he rolled from bed , holding the bedspread around himself as he continued to shiver, and let out a booming cough, stumbling to one knee. "Drat," he wheezed.

Peter appeared in the bathroom doorway, his mouth half-full of suds, "Sounds bad," he said around his toothbrush, and the phone suddenly gave a chime.

"I'll get it," Walter assured him, and Peter shrugged, returning to the sink. Walter moved to the nightstand, rubbing his aching eyes as he picked up the receiver and set it to his ear, "Hello?"

"Walter?" someone asked.

"Hopefully. Good morning, agent Dunham."

Olivia chuckled softly on the other end of the line, "Good morning, Doctor Bishop. Are you alright? You sound ill."

"I believe my brain is on fire."

"…What?"

"Here's Peter," He replied as his son frowned, shoving the triangular, green bottle into his hands and pulling the receiver away from him, "I'll get a straw, then." and Walter tottered toward the coffee machine.

"What's up?" Philip asked.

"Is something wrong?" Olivia asked, and there was a faint shifting, Peter assumed it was a seatbelt in her car- she must have been on her way to the motel. He both admired and envied her energy for a job that seemed to have no time for rest.

"Walter's sick, nothing serious. He'll be fine after- do _not _put that in the coffee! No! _Bad_!- anyways, what's up? Yet another gruesome episode in the wee hours?"

"Something like that. I'm on my way to pick you up now- lucky enough for us… it seems we've got a fresh one."

"Okay. We'll be ready. See you."

"See you."

Walter looked up, sniffing as Peter set down the receiver. He smiled softly, "Where are we going today?"

"_You're_ not going anywhere," Peter replied, moving to the dresser to pull out a pair of jeans and pull them on, "You're going to stay here and get well. I'll go have a look, and bring you back the details."

Walter watched him blankly for a few moments, "You can't be serious," he said at last.

"Dead serious," Peter snorted, pulling on a tee shirt and patting it flat across in stomach, "You're in no condition to be going out in the cold. Look at you; you can hardly stand."

Walter shook his head, sniffing again, "No. I'm going."

Peter frowned at him, "No, you're not."

"You don't understand. Peter, this is what I do. I there really are only two things I'm here for, and researching these cases, solving them…correcting my mistakes… is one of them." He set the open bottle of cough syrup on the counter and doffed the blanket onto the bed.

Dark curiosity piqued Peter's features, "…What's the other reason?" he asked at last.

Walter paused from gathering his clothes from the dresser to look over at his son. There was a silence, and Peter suddenly felt heat gather on his face as he realized the answer, "Asian cuisine," Walter replied modestly, returning to his task.

"That's your third bottle of cough syrup- _stop it_."

The black Ford Mustang pulled up to the loading docks of a huge warehouse, shrouded in the dark fog that drifted in from the river. The operation was quiet, and only a lone figure stood in the cold to greet them, black trench coat damp about his ankles. His shivering was non-existent, and he approached the car as the engine stopped, and Olivia Dunham opened the door and stepped out, "Agent Dunham," Agent Broyals called softly, and she looked up, her breath fogging the still air. He could see her hair, freshly showered, still damp about her neck. Her eyes were dark and turbulent with exhaustion as she turned them toward him, her pale features tinted pink in the chill. He nodded toward the other figures that emerged from the car, "Mr. Bishop, Dr. Bishop. This way." and he led them on, across the gravel parking lot and through an opening in the chain link. They trudged through the dewed undergrowth as he continued with the briefing, "A call came in a few days ago, and then another just a few hours ago. Some disturbances down under the bridge- murders."

"So why are we here? What's the catch?" Olivia asked, taking his hand as he helped her leap from the embankment onto the shallow sand of the river shore. Philip and Walter followed, and they continued on, "Homeless people flock to the bridges- murder is common practice, sadly enough."

"Well, at first we thought it was a matter for the police, as there was nothing in the reports to warrant attention from the FBI, more or less our own little branch of it. Then we got the full report in," Broyals replied. They came to stop before the graffiti-strewn cement pillar that stretched upward to support the tall bridge that spanned the river, and disappeared into the fog. Quietly, Walter coughed. "Six bodies."

Agent Dunham looked taken aback, "Mass murder?"

Broyals nodded, "It would seem so. Hardly unnoticeable, even for the homeless," he drew the manila file from under his arm and handed it to her, "But what made it truly peculiar was the manner in which the bodies were found. All completely drained of blood."

All three of his companions looked surprised, "All of the bodies were found mutilated in a ritualistic way," Olivia said, flipping through the photographs before her, "arms bound, tongues and eyes removed… And pentagrams etched onto the chest and forehead… this sounds like occult."

He nodded. "That's what we thought. This way."

"Walter!" Peter barked, and his father looked up from his place among the weeds, a frog clutched in his gloved hands. Peter glared, and Walter dropped the amphibian, following along sheepishly.

They arrived at the scene, pushing past the yellow tape that enclosed the terrain. Almost an exact replica of the photographs they had seen previously seen, six bodies lay in a circle, heads toward the center, around what had been a fire. The ashes smoldered now, and Agent Dunham approached, followed closely by Peter. Walter strayed behind, addressing Agent Broyals, "What happened to the removed parts?" he asked.

"According to some pagan religions, it is customary to eat parts of your enemy, under the pretence that you may gain their knowledge or power," He replied modestly.

Walter looked slightly sick, and coughed again, swallowing.

"These bodies look…bloated," Olivia said, her brows furrowing.

"Almost as if they were pulled out of the water," Peter completed her thought as Walter knelt to examine one on the corpses closely.

"So it would seem," Walter mused, drawing a small flashlight from his pocket. He glanced at the already coagulated wounds on the victims' chest, then turned his beam to the wounds on the undersides of each of their arms, "…may I have one?"

"I beg your pardon, Doctor Bishop?" Broyals questioned, slightly taken aback.

"I need to take one back to the lab for some tests. Any of them will do, but I'd prefer this one here," he straitened, motioning to the corpse he had just been examining.

"Yes, of course," Royal replied, blinking once to rid himself of uncertain thoughts, "That would be the natural course of things. You needn't ask."

Walter nodded, "Thank you." he glanced around anxiously, "Excuse me…" and he sped off toward the vegetation.

"Walter!" Peter exclaimed.

Olivia ignored them, turning toward her superior, "Something is obviously wrong about these deaths," she said, "I know that they were meant to look like cult killings, and that's what they've been reported as… but these bodies look like they've been in the water for weeks. I'd like to take a look at any suspicious drowning cases reported in the vicinity that have involved vagrants in the last few months."

Broyals nodded, "We'll have them for you."

"I told you I was dying!" Walter cried.

Peter emerged from the brush, looking distinctly put-out, "We've got to get back to the lab- Walter's puking cough syrup."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two.

"Sorry to get you up so early," Olivia sighed into her coffee as she slumped in a chair at the table, "It's just that you're the only one I can depend on to keep things in the Lab _close_ to sane, Astrid…"

Astrid smiled as she measured out a beacon of cold water from the cooler, dropping in an Alka-Seltzer and watching it fizz, "No problem," she said cheerfully, "I'm getting used to the weird hours. Besides, It looks like the day started long before I woke up…" she stirred the Alka-Seltzer with a sterilized surgical pick. She looked up, answering Olivia's questioned gaze, "He's got this thing for drinking out of the lab equipment…" she reached across the table to touch Walter's shoulder, "Doctor Bishop?"

He moaned softly, face down on the tabletop.

"Doctor Bishop, you have to drink this. It will make you feel better," she set the beaker before him, brushing his silver-black locks with her fingertips in a surprisingly caring motion.

He glanced up at her touch, then pulled himself upright with groaning effort, taking the glass container and draining its contents. He made a face, a trace of color returned to his sickly features, and he slumped back to the tabletop. Astrid smiled wryly, clearing the beacon away.

Olivia got to her feet, descending the steps to the gurney where Philip hovered over the newly arrived corpse, taking tissue samples and examining the body carefully, "So, what have we got?" Olivia asked.

"Well, a lot of this adds up to nothing," Peter sighed, "The average adult human can drown in sixty seconds, and in only one tablespoon of water. But for damage like this to be done to the body, the body would have to have been suspended in water for three days, perhaps more," he stood back, pulling the mask from his face, "there's no water in the lungs. Something else must have done this amount of tissue damage."

Olivia balked, "But the symptoms are there- white foam around the mouth, bloating…"

"Yes, I know," Peter snapped, rubbing his temples tiredly, "A reaction that happens when mucus mixes with water, essentially clogging the air passages and causing the victim to drown. And the dilatation of the tissue is the exact same… as if the tissue itself caused the expansion from _within_ the cells themselves, like _massive_ diffusion…"

"Not the same," Walter said, leaning against the railing of the steps as his world seemed to tip back and fourth. He shut his eyes, concentrating, "Um, there was something… Have you ever heard of people that over hydrate before a marathon, and they, you know…"he motioned with his hand, balling his fist and then splaying his fingers wide.

"Explode," Peter nodded, "Their cells over fill with water, and explode… but that doesn't make any sense, Walter. They end up like human raisins, not bloated, like victims of drowning."

A smile traced Walters' features, "Plumped raisins," he murmured, opening his eyes again to meet with Peters'.

Peter looked confused for a few moments, then alarm swept over him as he cried, "Walter!"

Walter swooned and fell, his back colliding with the steel grating with a crash, and Peter and Astrid rushed to him. He blinked back to consciousness, covering his mouth as he coughed and hacked, his eyes swimming.

"His fever's still climbing," Peter growled, "I don't get it, It's just a bug that's been going around…"

"Walter's been in an institution for sixteen years," Astrid said, "His immune system is practically zero, so naturally something trivial would take him down bad…"

"Is there anything we can do?" Olivia asked.

"Cool him off," Peter said, slinging his fathers' arm across his shoulder and helping him to his feet. "I'll be back. Astrid, if you would…?"

"Oh-yeah," She jumped to her senses, taking Walter's other arm around her neck.

"This is rather embarrassing," Walter mewed softly as they shuffled him from the lab, "I'm terribly sorry to be so much trouble…" And Peter let out a laugh.

"Walter, take off your shirt."

"I beg your pardon?" Walter coughed.

Peter growled, stripping off his father's shirt forcibly. His skin was as white as his cotton undershirt, and he shivered, edging toward Philips' warmth slightly, "It's _really _cold…"

"I'm going to blame your idiocy on the fever," Peter said, pulling off his shoes, "come on, get into the tub…" and he helped Walter stumble into the white porcelain tub of icy water, ignoring his fathers' gasp of shock, "You have to stay in here, Walter. You have to keep cold- don't leave this tub, understand? I'll be back in a while, alright?"

Shivering and giving short, rapid gasps, he nodded, a hot blush tracing the tops of his cheeks. Peter turned to Astrid, "Watch him, alright?" and he hurried out.

Astrid sat on the cold tile floor beside the tub, biting her lip as she watched Walter, his face tight with distress as he squeezed his eyes shut and went into another coughing fit, "You're going to be alright, Doctor Bishop," she said softly, reaching out carefully to stoke his hair from his sweating forehead.

"Astrid." He opened his eyes, looking up at her, "I remembered your name. Astrid."

Astrid laughed softly, "That's right. Astrid."

He was quiet for a few moments, "I'm a moron for not remembering," he said.

"It's alright," Astrid said, "Actually, I kind of get a kick out of hearing you call me other things, like 'Angel' and 'Lamb'…It's kind of cute."

He watched her for a few moments, and shivered, his lips slowly becoming a light shade of pale blue, "Astrid is a lovely name. like 'Aster'-A star-shaped structure seen during cell division, mitosis."

Astrid laughed again, "It's a flower, Doctor. But I'll keep mitosis in mind."

A small, sad smile settled on his face, "Astrid," he whispered, "I know Peter wants me to stay here, but I don't think I can take the cold."

"It's for your own good, Doctor," She assured him, "Your body temperature is too high for your brain to function properly, and we need to cool you down before it causes permanent damage."

Walter laughed suddenly, "What, do you think it will make me crazy?" he laughed again, his humor shifting into coughing.

Astrid bit her lip again, shaking her head, "No, Walter, that's not-"

"Yes, I know. Ignore me. It's just the lights, they remind me of _there_…" he shut his eyes again, shivering violently, "It was cold _there_, too. Cold and white and so quiet… quiet, no matter how much I…screamed…"

Astrid reached into the water, taking his hand in her own and drawing it to the rim of the tub. He clutched her fingers tightly, as if drawing her very life from her. She felt her heart squeeze in her chest, and rubbed her thumb over his white knuckles gently, "You'll be alright, Walter. You'll see."

"He'll be alright for now, Astrid's watching him," Peter said as he re-entered the lab, grabbing his jacket from a peg on the wall near the door, "I'm going to need to go and get some ice and alcohol for one of the other labs."

"I'll come with you," Olivia offered, getting to her feet, "Besides, hanging out in here by myself is a little creepy."

Peter paused, "Yes, it would be," he agreed, handing Olivia her coat as she neared. Together they ventured out, into the dark of the empty university.

"Do you know where the other labs _are_?" Olivia asked uneasily as they proceeded up the steps, and she suddenly stumbled.

Peter caught her by the wrist, righting her, "Watch yourself. You forget that I used attend this place."

"Oh, I forgot. You're a rouge genius," Olivia smiled, and Peter chuckled.

"Something like that." They continued on down the long, empty hall, shivering slightly in the cold. They reached a fogged glass door and Peter brought out a hair pin, picking the lock effortlessly and swinging the door open. Olivia stared at him for a few moments, then shook her head, moving inside. "Head for the freezers in the back and grab a few bags of ice, if you would," Peter went on, flipping on the lights and heading toward the glass cabinets against the wall.

Obligingly, Olivia went to the tall, steel freezers in the back of the lab, prying open one of the pressurized doors as the fine mist of dry ice swirled out to settle around her ankles. Ignoring the shelves of hundreds of plastic containers, she stooped inside to gasp two small bags of generic, cubed ice. She straitened and shut the door, turning and jumping with surprise as Jon's face seemed to flash before her eyes, whispering her name softly.

"Olivia?" Peter questioned in alarm, breaking her from her frightened daze, "Are you okay?"

Olivia blinked, and cleared her throat, "Uh…oh, yeah, sorry…"she shook her head, and Philip took the ice from her, and they exited the lab, shutting off the lights and relocking the door.

"Peter?" Olivia asked as last, as they headed back toward the basement, "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Did your father ever…talk about his work?"

"Walter? No. He was never home, really, and when he was, he was always quiet." he let out a small, dark laugh, "Even when mom would scream at him, he'd just watch her, like he was struggling to fathom why she was mad at him…and that sent her over the edge, most of the time."

Olivia nodded quietly, "Do you think that he was… unstable, before his incarceration?"

Peter was quiet for a few moments. "I don't know," he said at last, "I try not to think about it. He wasn't the world's greatest dad, not by a long shot…but…"

"He loves you," Olivia said softly, "You understand him."

Peter suddenly stiffened, "Yeah, well," he grumbled, "He's just a crazy old man." He pushed open the door to the basement bathroom, and Astrid looked up, "How's he doing?"

Astrid looked wry, "He keeps singing parts of Tori Amos songs, and passing out."

Peter frowned, "He never did have good taste for music. Oh, well. Help me dump this nonsense in."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three.

"_The first thing you need to accept, Belley, is the fact that people die. There is no way to change that fact. Prolong life, alter it, shorten it… life is life, death is death. These things are real, these things are absolute. However," He had added with a grin, "There are always ways to bend the rules, if you will. And that's where I come in, I suppose."_

Olivia Dunham poured over the report before her, completely unaware that Peter Bishop stared at her from across the table. She'd been completely silent for nearly an hour, and Peter sighed, sitting back in his chair to cross his arms behind his head, stretching, "Say something," he said at last, "Please, just so I know I'm not deaf."

"What do you want me to say?" Olivia mused, smiling slightly as she turned a page.

"Anything," Peter replied, scratching his chin, "There's not even air movement in this place, you know."

"I think you're just uncomfortable being in a fed interrogation room," Olivia said, "What, been in one too many?"

"Hey, _you're_ the freak here. What does sticking around in this increasingly tiny room _do_ for you?"

"You don't ask Walter why he stays in a lab, don't go asking me why I concentrate in an interrogation room," Olivia said, closely examining an up-close shot of the victims puffy, lacerated chest.

"Yes, but Walter's _insane_. I really hope you're not planning to follow suit," Pete got to his feet, stretching his back, "But with all the crazy crap that goes on around here, I don't think I'd blame you."

"Almost all of the victims were male," Olivia mused aloud, catching his attention, "Only three females, two in the last killing, one in this one. Why?"

Peter leaned over, gazing absently at one of the photographs. He pointed. "Check it- no pentagrams on the female victims' chests."

Olivia nodded, "Yes. There is obviously no relation to the victims gender, as was indicated by the first killing."

"That means it's not ritualistic, but it was meant to look like it…" Peter watched her bored expression, "…which we already knew. Can we get a hold of one of the bodies from the other killing?"

"Negative. They've been cremated by the city, explained as drowning."

Peter hissed a soft curse, "You want to know what's really bothering me?"

"What's that?" Olivia asked, rubbing her tired eyes behind her reading glasses.

"This case isn't anything special."

"What?"

Peter took a seat on the tabletop, looking reasonable, "I mean, look at it. I don't know much of anything about police work, but this actually seems like a standard case, if you ask me. Serial, occult… this precinct has seen it all. The only thing that sets _this_ case aside from any other is the fact that that the bodies were found under questionable circumstances."

"Such as…?" Olivia asked, beginning to see his standpoint.

"You said it yourself- murders happen at the bridges all the time. Someone wanted this one to get the proper attention…namely, from us."

"Are you indicating that someone on the inside knows about 'the Pattern', and may even be taking part in it?" Olivia exclaimed.

"You put it better, but yeah. Someone's baiting us, Olivia." Peter lowered his voice, glancing around, "Someone wanted this case to get to the right people, as this one isn't a headliner like the Hamburg flight or the tunnel incident. We aren't working with any other agencies, like all the other times. We're vulnerable."

Olivia shuffled the file together and slid it back into the manila envelope, "I'll talk to Agent Broyals," she said softly, "Ask who referred the case, if anyone."

"Be careful," Peter said, "we don't want anyone to think we've caught onto them."

Walter paused from his incision to sneeze into his lab coat. He snorted, righted himself, and continued working. Flicking a tiny bit of skin tissue onto a slide, he capped it with a labeled, plastic lid. He moved across the lab, to the freezer, pulling open the tall steel door and stowing the plastic disk away. He glanced around quickly, and moved aside a few jars of unnamable materials, smiling softly as he pulled out a chilled bottle of sarsaparilla.

"Who said you could be out of the bathtub?" Peter questioned, directly behind him.

Walter jumped slightly, dropping the bottle and scrambling a few moments before he caught it again, "Peter! I didn't expect you back so soon."

"I just went to the station," Peter replied flatly, shutting the freezer door, "Where's Astrid? She was supposed to be watching you."

Walter sneezed into his sleeve again, and Peter stepped back, making a face, "Who?" Walter questioned.

"Jeez, Walter, get a tissue. Never mind, I'll look for her myself."

"I'm feeling better, thanks for asking," Walter called as Peter swept across the lab.

"That's wonderful, Walter. I see you took a look as the specimen- what do you think?" Peter checked the office, finding it empty.

"Well, it's leaking, which I thought was odd, really."

Peter paused in mid-stride, "What?" he descended the steps to the gurney.

"Yes. See, have a look," Walter set down his sarsaparilla and took up a scalpel, ignoring the alarm on his son's visage, "Step back…" and he poked at one of the bloated bubbles of skin that had appeared in the few hours Peter had been absent, and the packet of skin popped, spilling liquid onto Peter's shoes, causing him to jump back. Walter only laughed at him.

"Yes, that's gross, Walter," Peter growled, shaking off the wet, "Did you take samples?"

"I did. The goo isn't harmful, in case you were wondering," Walter returned to his sarsaparilla, taking a drink. "But I'm afraid that most of the tissue seems to be breaking down at such an rapid pace that it's nearly unusable."

"That fast?" Peter exclaimed, examining the milky translucence of the skin. It reminded him slightly of the Hamburg flight, "That's nearly inhuman. What do you think it means?"

Walter sneezed again, spilling a little of his drink. He snorted, and replied, "I have no idea."

"Is it even remotely familiar?" Peter asked, "Try to think."

Walter considered, folding his hands to press his thumbs together in thought,"…No," he replied at last.

"Hey, Walter," Astrid called as she entered, shuffling takeout bags, "I got you that parfait; raspberry, right?"

"Oh, I forgot," Walter said modestly, bumping his own forehead with the heel of his hand, "I had her go out for snacks, sorry." and he hurried up the steps to take the bags from her and carry them into the office, "Did you know that in 1977, a group of one hundred and twenty eminent doctors gathered at the Apothecaries Hall in London for an annual dinner, an subsequently came down with hepatitis A from the bad raspberries served in the parfait?" he gazed absently at his own parfait, "Funny, I decided not to go to that one…"

Peter hastily headed for the door, grabbing his coat and keys, "Peter?" Walter questioned.

"I've got to get to Olivia- I don't think that this is part of 'the Pattern' that we're dealing with."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four.

The office of Agent Broyals hinted nothing at the fact that he was involved in things much deeper and darker than that of ordinary homicide. It seemed entirely normal- the desk cluttered with papers and files, a cup of pens, and his credentials hung on the wall beside an old, dusty baseball trophy.

One thing piqued Olivia's curiosity, whenever she was in the office, was the fact that there was no picture on the desk, of any kind. Everyone had a picture on their desk- she wondered why Agent Broyals did not.

"Agent Dunham," Agent Broyals said, and she looked up. His face held neither alarm nor amusement, as if his expression were carved out of stone. If he had a picture, what would it be? A family, a dog perhaps? Was there room in his heart, behind that mask? Olivia found herself at a loss, gazing into his cool face.

He dropped another manila file onto the desktop before her as he took a seat in his own office chair, "It would seem that you're pretty sharp at picking out the unordinary."

"That's why I'm here," she agreed.

"Out of the ordinary, even for 'the Pattern'." Royal leaned forward, lowering his voice, "I am not obligated to inform you of who chooses out the cases that display Pattern-like qualities. But I can tell you that this one was not referred under the same circumstances."

"What circumstances?" Olivia questioned, "Why can't you tell me?"

"If anyone were to find out who referred the cases, they may see to it that the _wrong_ cases get through, and let the true aspirations of the one constructing 'the Pattern' slip away," Agent Broyals replied, "This is something that cannot even be risked. 'The Pattern' is not to be taken lightly, as these occurrences seem to be growing worse. It also seems that the true objective to be accomplished by 'the Pattern' may be at hand." He looked at her seriously, "Agent Dunham, _we have no time_. A sense of urgency in unraveling these cases is mandatory, at this point. We can't be questioning the occurrences, not now."

"But you said that there was something out of the ordinary," Olivia demanded, "Just what is out of the ordinary, here?"

"This case was tipped off to us by an unknown source," Broyals answered, "Different, but not uncommon. I suggest simply that you be careful, Agent Dunham, and return to your work. The faster we can put these pieces together, the better." he nodded toward the door, indicating that he had nothing more to say.

Olivia got to her feet, a frown spreading across her features in distaste, "You're really crippling me here, sir." And she gathered her jacket, leaving the office.

She was halfway to her car when her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, and she drew it out, flipping it open, "Agent Dunham," She growled.

"You sound in a right cheery mood," Peter answered through the tiny speaker, "So, how did things go?"

"More political bullshit," Olivia grumbled, "I'm a mushroom, over here."

"Speaking of mushrooms, Walter discovered something interesting."

"How's he doing?"

"Fine. The corpse seems to be…well, for lack of a better term, _leaking._"

"Leaking?" Olivia said, bewildered.

"Yeah. Pockets of liquid appearing in the tissue positively everywhere. Pre-warning- don't let Walter poke one of them. I think he's found a way to aim them."

"Do we know if the liquid escaping the body is harmful?"

"Walter says no. But I saw it myself, and…the body looks like it's turning into wet rice paper. The disintegration rate is freakishly advanced, the damn thing looks like it's melting. But Olivia…I called to tell you- I don't think that this case is part of 'the Pattern'."

Olivia was silent a few moments, "Neither do I," she replied at last, "Broyals told me that the cases referred to us are hand chosen, and have to have certain pattern-like qualities."

"Oh? Who chooses them?"

Quickly, Olivia explained.

"Listen," Peter said afterward, "I've got an idea- I'm in the car right now, let me pick you up."

"Ummph!" Walter exclaimed, sitting up strait on the couch, his mouth full of parfait, "Umph! _Umph_!"

"Walter, swallow, and don't talk with your mouth full," Astrid replied, her attention unmoving from the movie, _Jaws_, on the television screen.

Walter rose to his feet, dropping his parfait onto the tabletop, "Water! Leaking! That's it!" he exclaimed, "I've got it!"

"Got what?" Astrid asked, concerned.

"The answer- I've got it!" He paused, motionless, "No-wait, lost it…got it again!" and he scrambled over the back of the couch, pulling on a lab coat, "Let's play _name that virus_!"

Astrid got to her feet, sighing, "What is it now, Walter?" she asked flatly as he shuffled files, scattering pages in every direction, "Stop it- you're making a mess."

He caught a page out of the air, flapping it excitedly as he fairly hopped up and down, "Yes! I win, I win!" he held the paper out to her, pointing to a bit of the tiny printing, "Read that if you would, my dear!"

"…'subject tested positive for intravenous HIV'?" Aster recited, uncertain of his point.

"I'll bet you the rest of my parfait that all of the victims tested positive for active HIV, regardless of how they admit to acquiring it," Walter said, dropping the paper and jumping the steps to the gurney, "And I'll bet that if I test this specimen until my face turns blue, there won't be any _trace_ of HIV. The same goes for the rest of the victims, I'm surmising."

"I'm guessing you want me to call Peter and Olivia?" Astrid smiled, caught up in Walter's sudden enthusiasm as the doctor pulled on a pair of latex gloves and switched on an overhead light, "You're saying that HIV did this?"

"What? Oh, heavens no," Walter said, "but these are fake…" he overturned the corpses' nearly wilted arm, tracing over the bruise where an IV tube had been inserted with his index finger, "It's just here to throw me off, I think-well, there's something here for everyone, isn't there?"

"What do you mean?" Astrid asked, peering over his shoulder.

"This IV was indeed postmortem, but I don't believe that it served any purpose," Walter replied, "Much like the pentagram, ritualistic nonsense- The tongue was removed to clear the air passage, and the eyes simply followed suit for the effect. Whoever this was, they're a brilliant scientist… but a social idiot."

"Like you?" Astrid asked before she could stop herself.

Walter paused, and sneezed, the question sinking in, "Ouch. But yes. In fact…well, I believe that this may have _been_ me, now that you mention it. Someone's been picking up my garbage."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five.

"The scene is cold," Olivia sighed as she and Peter stood on the sand under the bridge, "I don't know what we plan to accomplish, but I'm hoping it doesn't include evidence we didn't collect twelve hours ago."

"Why is that?" Peter asked.

"Well, the tides' already come in and gone out," Olivia explained, pointing to the small, calm waves that lapped in the distance, "Everything we didn't get has been washed out."

Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "The ritual thing almost seems like a slap in the face, now," he said, "But let's not think about this on a biological level, for a second. Let's assume this isn't part of 'the Pattern', that it's a regular ol' homicide. Why here, down by the bridges?"

"Plenty of people that won't be missed," Olivia answered, "Transients aren't exactly few and far between, here."

"You said there were murders down here all the time."

"There are. But they're rarely reported, and most are just counted as missing persons."

"What happens to the bodies? They've got to do something with them," Peter stooped to grab a small, smooth, oval river stone, feeling it in his fingers.

"We find them, sometimes. Mostly washed up downstream, on the shore somewhere. Some are shady, others are overdoses," Olivia answered.

"And the drowning cases are dismissed?"

"Most of the time."

Peter reared back, casting the stone out over the water to splash distantly, "Do you think that they placed the bodies here to get rid of the evidence when the tide came in? They do look like drowning…" But Olivia was shaking her head.

"No. if that were the case, why would the victims be situated in a ritualistic manner? To get our attention. To get _someone's_ attention, then ours. But who?"

"Who ever chooses the cases," Peter said simply.

"Exactly."

Peter looked confused, "I don't get it."

"I think it was a hit or a miss situation," Olivia explained, "That the killer wanted the bodies to be found, but if they weren't, it wasn't entirely critical."

"Why?"

Olivia was silent for a long time, and Peter was sure she wasn't going to answer when she said, "To send a message. The first one didn't get to us, so they had to try again."

Peter considered, "Hmm. A hint, you think?"

"Someone's been baiting us. Sometimes it feels like they're pushing us in the direction they want us to go," Olivia looked up at the bridge, "Like scattering a trail of crumbs for us to follow."

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted when Peter's cell phone gave a chime, and he muttered an apology, raising it to his ear, "Hello? Oh. Yes, Hi, Walter. Slow down, you sound like hell. What?" Olivia looked up at the hopeful tone in Peter's voice, and he covered the receiver, addressing her, "It's Walter. He's babbling a lot, but I think he's figured something out." he returned to the phone, "No-yes, I'm on my way. No. Slow down, Dammit. I don't have time to stop and get you donuts, Walter. Okay. See you." and he snapped the phone shut.

Olivia was staring distantly at the bridge as he touched her shoulder, "Hey- I've got to get back to the lab. Need a ride? I can drop you off at the station."

"Hm? Oh, no, I'm fine, I'll walk. There's something I need to think about anyways." She blinked, and smiled at him, "I'll meet you back at the lab, in a little while."

Peter hid his concern with a shrug, "Okay, have it your way. But be careful, alright?"

"The killer wanted us to know we're not alone," Olivia said.

"So, what's this all about?" Peter asked flatly as he watched Walter lean from one foot to the other in front of the gurney.

"I did it, Peter- I figured it out. This," he indicated to the mass of dehydrated flesh that lumped in one the gurneys in the vague form of a human body, "Is what is called the Handel virus."

"I've never heard of it."

"Of course you wouldn't have," Walter admitted, "That's because I created it. As you do know, in the early 1980's, HIV began to sweep Europe and invoke massive panic on all continents."

"And all of these victims had HIV," Peter said, "I fail to see your point. Time is running out, Walter- we don't have it to spare for a trip down memory lane."

"Only a few more steps, then," Walter replied obligingly, shuffling through his files, "Now, I have it written down here, somewhere…ah, yes. Well, I got a mite curious about the virus, and Belley and I decided to make a cure for it."

Peter balked as Walter flipped the notebook shut, "You… made a cure for HIV?" He stammered.

Walter looked uncomfortable, "Well… not exactly," he admitted, "I…um, well, I got bored. We kicked around an idea for a while, I developed a virus… and we halted progress. Research was going no where. Belley and I agreed to throw it out."

"Wait, so you're saying that you had a potential cure for AIDS, and you _threw it out_?!" Peter hissed.

"Yes. Peter, what I created was not a cure- it was something useless, and the concept was adolescently far-fetched."

"_What did you make, Walter?!"_

"The Handel virus was a whim," Walter said, putting his hands up defensively as Peter advanced, " I figured that what HIV did was destroy the systems' T cells, making the body susceptible to other viruses or disease. And HIV evolves so quickly that it's nearly impossible to place and kill, or develop an immunity. So I developed the Handle virus to flush out the virus entirely," he spread his hands, "'plumped raisins', if you will."

"But HIV is all over the body, not in a collected place, like cancer-" suddenly, Peter realized, "You were suggesting that the infected person be essentially bled out?!"

Walter nodded, "You see, now, it's awful implications," he said softly, "I created a virus that was timed stagnant. After two or three generations, the virus would have spread over the entire body, at which time it would begin to insert a harmless, water-like substance into the cell, forcing out the DNA needed in the nucleus to create HIV. With a constant, fresh flow of blood, the patient would flush the virus from the system."

Peter shook his head in disbelief, "You're joking, right? When the cell is free of HIV viruses, what then? Where does the water go, Walter?!"

"I didn't say it would work, I said I created it," Walter snapped, "On victims of over hydration, the cell membrane bursts, thus resulting in any fluids in the cell draining. I needed a way to allow the water to escape without killing the cell- by then, the cell membrane would have been stretched out, allowing the water- and I use 'water' merely because there is no word for what the virus really inserted- to easily drain out."

"That would leave the patient just as open, if not _more_, for disease," Peter said, "Please, god, Walter, tell me you didn't test this."

Walter looked at a loss. Then, he sobered, "But, Peter- it _worked_! Look, there isn't a trace of HIV at all-"

Peter grabbed Walter by the collar, slamming him back into the gurney, "Does this _look_ like it worked, to you?!" He roared, "Does this _look_ like progress, to you?! People are dying, Walter, and it's all because of you! Your fucked-up 'whims', your little projects, even from all those years ago, you're _still_ a _murderer_!"

"_I was trying to save lives!"_ Walter snarled.

"By what, loosing your morbid viral fantasies?! Are you _that_ twisted?!"

Tears were welling in Walter's eyes as he turned his face away, biting the inside of his cheek, "I-I didn't know…" he stammered, glaring at nothing as a tear slid down his cheek.

"No, you didn't know," Peter spat, releasing him and straitening, "You didn't know about _anything_. You just stayed down here and dreamt up ways to hurt people. You were good at that, Walter." and he stormed away.

Walter flinched as the door slammed, and sank to the lab floor, sobbing softly.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Olivia was surprised as Peter arrived at her desk, reaching out to knock on her paperwork to gain her attention, and she blinked, looking up at him. He smiled, "You keep concentrating like that, you're going to age faster; proven fact, idiots age slower. Just look at how young I seem."

Olivia chuckled, sitting back to rub her eyes, "Thanks for the tip. So, what's up?"

"Walter says he developed the virus we're chasing," Peter replied, "Something he developed in the Lab with Belle 'back in the day'. 'Calls it the Handel virus." Olivia watched his expression, and he glanced up from fiddling with her fountain pen, "What?" he snapped.

"You look like hell. I think you might be sick."

"No. I just look like this when I'm pissed off."

Olivia tossed her glasses onto the tabletop, "You had a fight. Don't lie, I've seen it before. What about?"

"I didn't have a fight. Walter had a wake-up call, and he needed it," He flounced in a chair across from the desk, "He pisses me off."

"I'm seeing a hint of teenage resentment, to be honest. What did he do?"

"What _hasn't_ he done?" Peter rubbed his forehead in frustration, "All that crap he did all those years ago; does he think it doesn't mean anything, anymore? I mean, seriously, where does he get off, being _proud _of himself? My father isn't a genius… he's a monster."

Olivia was quiet a few moments, "Have you ever read Walter's psyche files?" She asked at last.

"No. He's crazy. And even that is an understatement."

Olivia nodded, "I see. Peter, do you judge me?"

Peter blinked, "What?"

"Do you judge me, for the way I was in love with a man that was not the person I thought he was? That I was in love with John, my partner, and I don't know if he was a murderer, a traitor to everything I hold dear?"

Peter only stared at her.

"You_ don't_, Peter. And that's what makes you an amazing person. You're willing to overlook people's mistakes and let them live," Olivia sat back in her chair, "I know that the reason you didn't graduate was _because _Walter was your father. I couldn't deal with the hazing either."

Peter chuckled softly, "'Frankenstein' does get a little old."

Olivia nodded, "But the one person you can't forgive is Walter."

"Hey-" Peter started defensively, before Olivia hushed him.

"And that's the one thing he needs. He needs you desperately, Peter, you have no idea. I think we all need someone to forgive us, and what makes one mistake greater than another?"

Peter chewed his cheek silently in thought. Olivia only nodded, sighing.

"Anyways," She continued, "I've gathered a bit of information I think might help. Let's get back to the lab." and she got to her feet, gathering her coat and papers.

Peter gazed at her for a few moments, "You know, wisdom in a woman is completely unattractive," he grumbled.

The specimen had been cleared away, and the lab was spotless when they entered, "Hello?" Peter called into the emptiness of the basement, and his call echoed back with hollowness. He and Olivia glanced at one another, concerned, "Astrid? Walter?"

Astrid emerged form the office, a cup of coffee in her hands, "Hi, guys," she said softly, "Walter went out for a walk. He said he'll be back in a few minutes."

Peter frowned, "I told him we didn't have time to waste!" he growled, and Olivia nudged him with her elbow, "Fine, I'll get him," he grumbled, and disappeared up the steps.

It was raining, and Peter cursed Boston again. It never rained in the middle east…

"Peter?"

Walter stood in the walkway behind him, watching him blankly. His voice was painful and raspy. Peter wiped raindrops from his eyelashes, "Walter. Olivia needs you back in the lab-" Walter interrupted him by pushing his umbrella into his son's hands.

"I don't want you getting sick," Walter said moderately as the raindrops battered his own hair and shoulders.

Peter paused, "...but what about you?"

"I'm already sick, so what's the point?" Walter smiled. They stood in silence a few moments.

"Listen, Walter-" Peter said at last.

"I'm a bad father." Walter said quietly, sliding his hands into his pockets, "I always was. I'm sorry, Peter."

Peter frowned, "You also tend to interrupt," he growled, "listen to me. What I said was pretty harsh, I know. But… what you did… that was a long time ago."

Walter shook his head, "That doesn't change any of it. I made this mess, and you're right, I'm…well, I'm a murderer. But Peter, I may know what I am, but that doesn't mean I have to be happy with it."

Peter sighed, scratching his forehead, "Yes, I know."

"Of all the things I've lost, I miss you the most, Peter." Peter looked up to see Walters' eyes glistening, "and I know that I may never get you back. I don't deserve to get you back. But I'm going to try… I'll never stop trying."

"Walter, please don't-"

"Shut the hell up, I'm interrupting. What would it take, Peter?"

There was silence, and Walter shivered in the rain.

"Fix it," Peter said, "fix all of it. You solve 'the Pattern', correct what you've done, and I'll forgive you."

"Consider it done."

"Oh, and something else," Peter added.

"Anything," Walter smiled.

"Please stop crawling into the closet, in the middle of the night. It's a little weird, alright?"

"I'll try." They shared the umbrella on the way back to the lab.


	7. Chapter 7

Final Chapter.

"July, 1967- death strikes a group of US mercenaries in the rainforest of the remote Motaba river Valley in Zaire. Victims suffer blinding headache, melting fevers, and catastrophic internal bleeding before their lungs literally dissolve away. A brief examination by US army chiefs convinces them that they want nothing more to do with this attack, and they drop a bomb on the valley to eliminate the evidence; they then suppress the entire episode.

"Thirty years later, the virus returns, via the San Francisco dock, carried by an illegally imported monkey. The monkey is released into the pine forests of California, escaping the twenty-four hour quarantine that has been placed on the city. The virus then makes its way to Boston on an infected person traveling by plane. People in a Boston cinema are then infected by a single cough. The infection spreads like wildfire, and is one-hundred percent lethal."

Olivia stared, "Walter- what is this virus?" she whispered, horrified.

"Oh, I have no idea," Walter smiled, "It was just the beginning of a movie I watched last night, 'Outbreak'. Have you seen it? Scary stuff."

"Terrifying," Peter said flatly, "Now get on with it."

"I bet I could cure _that_ one faster than three days," Walter grumbled, moving about to gather his materials, "Yes, so, on to the Handle virus. Developed over thirty years ago, in this very lab. Come to think of it, the very year of that parfait incident…"

"Walter!" Olivia and Peter said together, snapping him back to attention.

"Ah! Anyways, The Handel virus wasn't successful, not by a long shot," he turned to the whiteboard, picking up a pen and beginning to sketch, "Research for said virus was terminated. But I kept my notes, as well as a log of the effect the virus had on the subject, after incinerating the rest of the research. After that… well, the Handel virus slipped to memory, I'm afraid."

"So, Belle would be the only other person with the knowledge of the Handel virus?" Olivia questioned.

"Do you think Massive Dynamic has something to do with this outbreak?" Peter said.

"Why not? They've had something to do with the other cases. It's impossible to rule them out."

"It was Belley's idea to terminate the research," Walter mused, erasing a few of his lines, "logically, it was only costing us time. I'm telling you, the theory was garbage." he capped the pen, turning back to them, "I don't see the benefit to resurrecting a lost cause."

"He's right- why would Belle dig up a project that was well on it's way to nowhere?" Peter said, sitting back and scratching his chin, "Walter, what is that?"

Walter glanced over his shoulder at the whiteboard, grinning, "Oh, that? Do you like it?"

"Never mind, I don't care," Peter shook his head.

"It's a dandelion."

"Is this leading to anywhere relevant?"

"…probably not."

"Then we don't care." Peter turned back to Olivia, "Say Massive Dynamic is involved. You said yourself- the killer had a message, that we aren't alone."

Olivia nodded, as Walter flipped the board, beginning to scribble hurriedly, "This case brings up the past, and maybe that's what they wanted to say- that they know our secrets. Everything about us. Scraps of Walter's work. Belle himself would have no use for Walter now- he's already taken the work they'd done and founded Massive Dynamic, what else could he possibly want?"

"It's not a message," Peter said in realization, "It's a _threat_."

"What do you mean?" Olivia asked, taken aback.

"Think about it- Walter is, well, nutty. And Belle is no where to be found, so who else is left? Someone who knew what both of them knew. Someone who has something to gain from 'the Pattern'." Peter leaned forward, shuffling his fathers notes and Olivia's photographs, "It's a threat to tell us that they know _exactly_ what we know. That they can control us, manipulate us… for all we know, we could be working for them, right now. All of us are vulnerable… all of us, but Walter."

"How do you mean?"

Walter capped the pen again, gazing up bleakly at the mathematical formulae that covered the board with purple writing. Peter got to his feet, "Because of this," he stepped forward, grabbing the whiteboard and spinning it end over end. The mathematics were replaced by the dandelion, then back to numbers, then back to petals, "Walter is nuts, which means he can solve the pattern."

Olivia watched, uncertain of what to reply.

"Who ever this is, they're scared of Walter," Peter said, "So they sent him a little candy gram, to acknowledge that they see him as an equal."

"Candy?" Walter asked hopefully, and sneezed into a napkin.

"No candy, Walter. I have a feeling that we may have received this 'gift' from whoever is directly controlling the pattern."

"And now that we've received it, the killings will stop?" Olivia questioned.

Peter nodded, "I have only to assume. What I do know is that, now that we're on the radar, things can only go down from here. They're expecting a lot from us, now."

Olivia gazed absently out the car window. Traffic rumbled noisily by, but she put it aside, as she had learned to do from many years of working and living in a city, and her thoughts were quiet, in tune with the soft hum of the engine. She'd filed her report days ago, giving her findings to Broyals…but somehow, she felt hollow, and cold. The bright streetlights seemed to force away the dark in her mind.

She did not do well with threats unanswered.

"Hey, Olivia," Peter said softly, nudging her gently as he returned his eyes to the road, "Look," he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the back seat.

Olivia glanced back, smiling. Walter had removed his shoes, curling his knees to his chest and hiding his face in his folded arms. A soft snore escaped him, and Olivia chuckled softly.

"He had a long day," Peter explained, "he _kicked_ a _swan_ at the park; like, ninja status. It was freaking hilarious."

Olivia muffled her laugh with her hand, "I take it he has no fear of birds."

"More like no fear of defending his ice cream to the death," Peter smiled, "But it was alright. What about you? How was work?"

Olivia shrugged, and stretched tiredly, "Ah, I'd rather not talk about it. Crap I want to leave at the office door."

"Okay," Peter said, "Sounds reasonable. Work and personal time should be separate."

Olivia smiled at him, "Thanks."

They pulled to a stop at the curb just down the walkway for her front door, and Olivia unbuckled her seatbelt, gathering her things and opening the door, "Goodnight, Peter, thanks for the ride-" she felt his hand on her wrist as she moved away, and she paused, looking back at him.

"Olivia," Peter said seriously, "Don't be scared."

"I'm not scared," She answered.

"I won't let anything happen to you- you know that, right?"

"Thanks, Peter. But I don't need protecting."

He shook his head, "Everyone needs protecting."

"Not me."

"Even you."

"What do you want, Peter?"

"A kiss," he answered with a small smile. It was happening before she could stop herself, and Olivia at last came to her senses as she shut the car door. Blushing slightly, she turned away, hurrying up the walkway.

Inside the car, Peter watched her go, and suddenly became aware of a soft, deep chuckling from the backseat, "Oh, shut the hell up, you old bastard!" he snapped, twisting around to slap at Walter blindly. His father only laughed openly, defending himself.

END.

*To whom it may concern:

'Water Music'; an orchestral suite (1717) by German-born British composer George Frederick Handel.

It consists of three separate suites for strings and wind instruments. The exact circumstances of its composition are not known, but it was first performed to accompany a royal barge trip along the Thames River from Whitehall to Chelsea on July 17, 1717


End file.
